London Calling
by DarknessOnTheEdgeOfTown
Summary: Patrick Bateman is twenty-eight and works on Wall Street; he is handsome, sophisticated, charming and intelligent. He is also a psychopath. Now, he is in London looking for a loose end called "Paul Owen", a man a thought he had killed.
1. Chapter 1

**LONDON CALLING**

_Chapter One_

PLEASE WAIT HERE is written on a sign dangling down from the high roof of the King Edward hotel, London. I am standing in the lobby impatiently tapping my foot on the red carpeted floor. I am looking less than my best this morning— due to a long flight from JFK—but I'm still looking very good and better than the people around me. Sweat is gathering on my forehead and, I think, it is shining which only accentuates my perfect tan. Due to the fact that I have finally purchased a tanning bed I can work on my color at home, whenever I like. The line in front of me is, at my guess, a fifteen minute wait to get the reception desk even though there are three windows for customers to visit and check in or out at. This pisses me off as I'm extraordinarily tired from my flight and, despite the fact this is a _five star_ hotel, there is no coffee machine in my room. What a fucking joke, no coffee machine! I'll put it in the suggestion box when I leave.

There are only three people in front of me now in the queue but they are a family consisting of an out-of-shape father in his forties wearing a… oh my god… a _non-designer _grey woollen sweater and brown corduroy pants from god knows where. His shoes are black leather and don't have a recognisable brand look about them. _Idiot_, I am thinking as he turns and smiles at me. I smile back, showing him a flash of my perfectly white and straight teeth. My look says _Hey, how's it going_, but at the same time conveys the message of, _You fucking wish you were me_. He turns away and shuffles to one of the three receptionists. His wife (I'm guessing wife) is overweight and ugly as sin. Their little girl (who I guess is nine) is too thin and is wearing shit clothes, just like her parents. It makes me feel sick; no one in England seems to know about fashion. I'm irritated as I then hear them talking in what I think is a Canadian accent.

Finally, I am at the reception and trying to tell the blonde British hardbody that I'm "Mr. Bateman, Pat Bateman, booked in for room 1994."

"I'm sorry," she says in a whining and nasal voice. "I can't find you on this computer." The computer looks new, it is a clean white colour and I am reminded that I should look into buying one for myself. The one in my office in New York is far too outdated. It's 1991 for god sakes! The dumb bitch then flicks through a large leather-bound book full of bookings. I check my Rolex and then stare at her with my bored yet gorgeous eyes. _Get a fucking move on, woman!_

"Oh," she says in a high-pitched squeal, her grin blaring at me. "Here we are, sir. I'm sorry about the delay; will there be anything else I can help you with?" She's clearly already in love with me, as everyone seems to be. English chicks love a handsome and wealthy American, such as myself.

As I stand in the elevator—sorry, _lift_—all I can think about is getting a coffee or an espresso when I get to my room. Then I think of cocaine. It has just dawned on me that I don't know any dealers in London. I hope I am not here too long. My hands are beginning to shake though that might be from anger as I've just remembered that Canadian prick and his non-designer family.


	2. Chapter 2

**LONDON CALLING**

_Chapter Two_

The room in 1994 is actually not too bad. There is a suitably large bedroom with a king-sized bed and an en suite bathroom with a shower. My luggage has been brought up by some porter wearing a red vest over a white shirt. His gold tie is hideous but I can only blame the hotel for handing out the uniforms. He's not a bad looking kid and his face lights up when I give him a two-hundred pound tip.

I lie down on the large bed and spread out my arms and legs, this is after removing my Giorgio Armani over-coat, obviously. My suit, also Armani, is charcoal and a little creased from the flight which upsets me. I have under it a white cotton shirt by Ralph Lauren and red silk tie by Bill Blass, "when in doubt wear red" is his philosophy, not that I'm often in doubt about fashion. My suit is double-breasted which I fear will soon be out of fashion and my black wing-tips are catching the light from my bedroom interestingly.

After checking the television (which is a Sony and a year out of date) I decide to go downstairs to the bar and have a drink of something strong before I start on my _mission_, for want of a better word.

The mission I am referring to is my search for Paul Owen, the Vice President at my company, Pierce & Pierce. At least, he _was_ Vice President but I killed him with an axe in his stupid fucking face. I dissolved the body parts in a bathtub with Lime in Hell's Kitchen. I _know_ I did. Yet I've heard he's here and I _need_ to find him as soon as possible. Hopefully, after I find some cocaine or something like that. Perhaps getting drunk will help.

I order a J&B on the rocks from a good-looking bar-maid. I think she's Irish. Her eyes are green and her hair is brunette, pulled back into an attractive looking pony-tail. "What's your name?" I ask as she scoops ice into my glass and adds the Scotch.

"Kathleen." She says smiling but obviously uninterested, a professional smile.

"Pat Bateman," I pushed a well manicured hand through my slicked back hair.

"Hi." She says.

"Hi." The silence is obviously awkward for both of us so I cough and grin like an idiot. "Thanks." I say, taking a gulp of my J&B. _Christ, it's piss! _I think to myself but keep up my smile. Kathleen admires my tan, I think, and then giggles.

"Something wrong?" I ask curtly. If she's laughing at my tan I'll gut her.

"No," she grins. "I was just… I like your, uh, tan."

"Oh. Uh… thank you. I have a tanning bed, you know." I say nonchalantly, leaning on the bar.

"Really?" she sounds impressed but then here tune changes. "I've heard those things can give you, like, cancer… and stuff. Something to do with _rays_, I think."

"Don't be silly." I say chuckling. How fucking dare she! My desire to fuck her has gone completely and my desire to stab the bitch in the eye has emerged. I check my Rolex. Maybe later.


	3. Chapter 3

**LONDON CALLING**

_Chapter Three_

The city is very bleak this time of year (winter) and the sky is a strange dull grey and it looms over me like the axe of an executioner. My Armani overcoat is buttoned up to keep out the cold although not all the way as I like to flaunt my Bill Blass tie, just to show people what they're missing out on.

I count one, two, three homeless girls living in the gutters in just one street- all of them fucking _hideous_. All of them were curled up, their knees to theirs chests, and wore these disgusting wool hats and fingerless gloves. There's a stupid idea—_fingerless _gloves. The point of gloves is to keep your fingers warm! Some English faggot smiles at me and it makes me tense up and clench. There is no sight worse than the city of London. Generally, I can recognise the beauty of a place, the subtle colours, the tiny details, the important factors and anything that makes something look good; but London… London is a shithole. Every street— no matter what district you're in— is an eclectic collection of dull buildings, some different colours than others and some old and some new. None of them look good though; just old and dying, like the city and most of its inhabitants.

The sight of the city seems to be dampening my mood so I stop and look around. As I'm trying to find something positive about the place a black cab nearly runs me down because I've forgotten that the fucking British faggots drive on the _left_. The cab driver halts and winds down his window. After giving me the finger with a hand in desperate need of a manicure he says:-

"Outta the way, you yuppie wanker!"

I take a step forward and push my face up to the open window; our faces almost touching… though I'd never let my clean and smooth skin come into contact with his, no doubt, diseased skin. I'm so close I can see the grey stubble forming on one of several chins and I can smell smoke on his breath—_cigarette_ smoke, for Christ sakes.

"If I spot you near me again," I say with gritted teeth and a plastered smile, "I'll rip out your motherfucking heart." He gulps. "Is that understood?"

Without actually giving me a definitive answer, the cunt drives away muttering something to himself in the most inelegant cockney accent I've ever had the misfortune to experience. I tug gently on my coat sleeves and take a deep breath before I power forward to a restaurant called _The Marlborough_. It sounds like a decent place and, if I'm not mistaken, Craig Van Patten once recommended it to me years ago. Or maybe it was Tim Price. 

Inside is more elegant and much hipper than I thought it might be. The floors are hardwood and practically gleaming with the amount of varnishing it has been subjected to and the walls are painted a pleasant forest green. I like the place based on its looks and furnishing but I have yet to peruse the menu or wine list.

The Marlborough turned out to be a fairly enjoyable experience. The food was fine, although I only had a light lunch—duck soup with an artistically placed leaf floating in it and some bread and Evian water. My throat tastes strange and my stomach is gurgling with the mixture of the soup, the water, and the J&B I had earlier at the hotel's bar. As I was leaving The Marlborough I asked several staff members about Paul Owen but nobody knew him or remembered him.

The futile lunch and the long flight has left me weary and on the verge of suicidal thoughts so I head back to the hotel to sleep. All I can think of as I lie in my king-sized bed is about picking up that Irish hardbody at the bar, taking her to my room and… and… slicing her wrists and… slipping some… battery acid… face and eyes and… and…


	4. Chapter 4

**LONDON CALLING**

_Chapter Four_

There is a strange smile on my face when I wake up but I cannot remember why as a major headache has burrowed itself into the back of my skull. When I make it to the bathroom I take four aspirin and wash them down with a glass of room-temperature Evian water. The shower is on now and while I wait for the water to heat up I continue with my morning exercises. Two thousand-five hundred stomach crunches, five hundred push-ups, one thousand sit-ups and a solid five minutes of the plank. Feeling suitably refreshed and with endorphins pumping, I shower, still trying to put up with my headache which, actually, has now become a full-blown migraine.

Wearing only a soft woollen towel, I leave the en suite bathroom and lay out another Armani suit, this one a light grey with a black shirt and black tie, both by Ralph Lauren. After applying the suitable facial creams I slick back my hair with Brylcream and floss my teeth, not too hard though, or my gums will bleed and I'll be stuck with a coppery taste in the back of my throat.

"Hi, again." I say to Kathleen when I take a seat at the bar.

"Good morning, Mr… uh…"

"Bateman." I say, cautioning her.

"Oh, yes," she giggles pathetically. "Of course. Mr. Bateman, how are we?"

"Fine. Listen, can I get an espresso or something? My head hurts and I'm tired."

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll be one moment." I look around when she leaves.

Across the room sits one fat lady, seriously fat, in her mid-seventies. All of her skin looks like its being held to her body with safety pins and I'm reminded of when a duvet falls too far into its cover. I shudder and lay my head gently against the bar and cough. Every time I cough my headache flares up and I wince in anger. _The fucking painkillers should be working by now!_ I think to myself, filled to the brim with fury.

"Espresso." Kathleen says, placing a little mug in front of me, like a shot glass. I look at her with what I'm guessing are bloodshot eyes and a hangdog expression because of my headache, my mood, the shitty city and all the people around me. Never have I felt so alone. Paul Owen had _better _be here.

In all honesty I don't even know where to start looking for Owen, he could be anywhere. It was two years ago I thought I killed him (was it two years? I think it was but I can't be sure though I should be) and a detective named Kimball said he was in London, my lawyer confirmed this. So where the fuck is he?

"Thank you." I say, taking the mug and downing the boiling liquid in one swift gulp.

"You okay?" she asks.

Without acknowledging this asinine question I glare and finally say:-

"Do you know Paul Owen?"

"Um… who? Paul All—"

"Owen. Paul Owen, do you know him at all? Maybe he's been in here."

"What does he look like?"

"He…" I'm at a loss. I can't remember his face at all. "He has, like, slicked back hair. He'd have been very well dressed, Armani, Bill Blass, Lauren, Gucci, that kinda thing, you know? Suspenders, maybe. Oliver People's glasses."

"He sounds like you." She says, smiling.

"How thoroughly unhelpful you've been." She's turned around by now and isn't listening. "I have a knife in my hotel room with a serrated blade. Would you like to see it?" she obviously doesn't hear me or answer. "That's good because, you know, you wouldn't be able to see it. Why? Because I'll stick it in your fucking Mick eyes." This is all under my breath but only because my head hurts too much to scream at her. "Bitch." I saw and glide away.

I pass the fat lady on my way out and whisper "Jesus" in absolute horror.


	5. Chapter 5

**LONDON CALLING**

_Chapter Five_

While I walk through the lobby my headache subsides somewhat and I open my eyes fully to look around. An old couple are checking in while a young couple are checking out. The young couple both look in their early twenties but the guy is clearly a loser—possibly rich as his wife is a babe and they're at a five star resort. I guess she has a stupid and skanky name like 'Angel' or 'Baby' or something as equally tacky and foul.

They walk past me and I find my eyes following them, out the door and into the street. The road looks very outlandish to me, not just because of the ridiculous cars driving on the left. Over the road on the sidewalk is a garbage can filled to the brim and overflowing with cigarette butts and coffee cups. Next to it is a black fence with spikes on the tops of each individual railing and over it a large grass-filled park.

The couple are still walking down the street, dragging their luggage behind them in some non-descript leather carrier. I suddenly have an overpowering urge to head back to the hotel, take the stairs up to my room, grab my Jean-Paul Gaultier overnight bag and flaunt it in front of them before hacking them to pieces and putting them inside the bag. The urge fades away yet my feet are, for some vague reason, still following these two shcmucks all around the city.

After god knows how long they finally stop and hail one of those little black cabs, get in and drive away before I even have time to steal a car and go after them. The tapping of my shoes is rhythmic and has calmed me down, though I am still sweating, breathing heavily and have this same fucking headache that refuses to leave me alone.

The sun is starting to set and I'm sat on a bench trying to remember what happened with my day. Following couple. Espresso at bar. Jean-Paul Gaultier. Serrated blade? Blank. Now bench. As I'm contemplating my day, a voice carries itself over to me and I notice it because it's the first American accent I've heard since I've been here.

"Hey, hey, Halberstam!" My head doesn't move. "Marcus Halberstam, you old sonofabitch!" This person's body mass is blocking my sun light so I slowly raise my head while slipping on a very dark pair of Ray Ban sunglasses that cost me close to three hundred dollars.

Holy fuck!

Paul Owen stands before me in a long black overcoat and Oliver People's glasses, swaying side-to-side and throwing quick jabs at me. He laughs playfully.

"Marcus, what the hell are you doing in the big smoke?"

"P- Paul…" I say, falling over my tongue. "I'm… uh… I'm here with—wasshername?—Cecilia!" I snap my fingers excitedly, suitably impressed with my ability to improvise.

He takes a seat next to me and then throws his arm around my neck.

"Oh, Cecilia, yeah!" he says, clasping his hands together, in front of my face. "Jeez, still with the old ball and chain, eh, Marcus?"

"Oh, well, you know…"

"Listen, you old workaholic, where're you staying?" I just stare at him, gobsmacked and utterly startled by his appearance. I close my eyes and reopen them several times and then—god help me—I _actually_ pinch myself to see if I'm dreaming. He could be, like, an apparition or some projection of my psyche… that'd piss me the fuck off.

"The Prince Edward," I say. "It's… it's a real nice, uh, _joint_." Paul's smug little face stares back at me. He's looking a little different; his hair is shorter and looks better than before. Upon closer observation I can see that it's very similar to mine, only mine is, naturally, better.

"C'mon," he says, standing up. "I'll walk you back there and we can catch up some."

"I put a fucking axe in your fucking head."

"What's the food like there, any good?"

"I dissolved your body in Hell's Kitchen."

"Come to think of it, I'm hungry, Halberstam."

"You're dead."

"Maybe a salmon-based dish…"


	6. Chapter 6

**LONDON CALLING**

_Chapter Six_

Without fully understanding how it happened, I am sitting opposite Paul Owen at a nice little restaurant called _Le Carpe Diem _and we're both drinking a J&B on the rocks. My brain is in overload and I'm on the verge of a panic attack as I _know_ I killed Paul Owen two years ago. Axe. Face. Bathtub. The fucking works.

He is smiling and talking about shit I'm not interested in. For the second time in his life he has mistaken me for Marcus Halberstam. He swishes his J&B around and I could almost dance to the sounds of the ice cubes colliding and sliding in the beverage.

"So that's really why you can't wear a toupee on television!" he shouts at me, guffawing in a very off-putting way. Neatly, he dabs at his face with a napkin. "Oh, God, I love that story, Halberstam. Ha, ha, I _really_ do." Paul shakes his head and I just stare, lost in my mind. "You know, Marcus, the funny thing is that I met Donald Trump _later_ that month!" he cascades into another fit of laughter.

"Great." I remark, totally freaked out and unenthused.

"Say, what's wrong? Marcus? You're sweating, man."

"No, I'm not, Owen. It's fine. Please… continue." My teeth are gritted and he closes his eyes and the slick bastard is still grinning like the Cheshire-fucking-cat!

"That was it, Marcus. Now, what've you been up to? Eh? Still cashing cheques and, uh, breaking _legs_?"

"Necks." I say.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Owen is on his seventh J&B by the time the bill arrives but I have barely even sipped mine the entire time. Haven't spoken either. I have to bite the bullet so I lean in and say to a fairly wasted Paul Owen:-

"You were at my apartment two years ago, Owen."

He stares back with confusion. "I was at your apartment _two weeks_ ago, Halberstam, you crazy bastard!"

"I guess you could have been at Halberstam's place, for sure. But I'm _Bateman_. Patrick Bateman, do you understand that? I'm not Marcus Halberstam, I. Am. Patrick. Motherfucking. Bateman."

"Bateman?" a sudden feeling of anxiety rushes over me and I hope that he won't make a scene; otherwise I'll have to decapitate the fucker in _Le Carpe Diem_. And I don't want to do that. The idiot is laughing again. "_Bateman_?" He puts too much emphasis on it the second time around for my liking. "Please! You've got a damn strange sense of humour, Marcus. Ha! Bateman couldn't leave New York without someone holding his hand, the little _cretin_! Forget a different fucking continent!"

"Paul…" I try to compose myself and think of a way to explain. "Would you like a latte?"

"Sure." He waves over to an unattractive waitress. She has a nice enough body but her face looks like somebody shot and _raped_ Quasimodo at the same time.

"No need to order," I say, flashing my teeth at him. "I've got a coffee maker in my room."

"Get outta town! You do?"

"Oh yeah." I say proudly but lying through my sparkling teeth. "Everyone does."

"What kind?"

"Ah… it's a, uh… _CoffeeBlend_… uh, one thousand…" I give up. "See for yourself." I grin and throw down a few fifty pound notes to cover the dinner.

In my room now, and Owen looks tentatively but excitedly around my room.

"Where's this CoffeeBlend1000, then?"

"There isn't one, Paul. I was lying so I could bring you back here and peel your skin off."

"What value is it, do you know?"

"Paul—"

"How fast can it make a cappuccino?"

"Paul—"

"Can it _even_ make a cappuccino?"

"I'm going to rip your fucking balls off."

"I should get one. Do you think the hotel would let me buy one?"

"Paul!"

"What is it, Halberstam?"

"Sugar?"


End file.
